“They say,” observed her mother, “that it’s not lucky to sell one’s hair, and whether it’s true or not I don’t know; but I’m tould for a sartinty, that there’s not a girl that ever sould it but was sure to catch the sickness.”

“I know that there’s truth in that,” said Jerry himself.  “There’s Sally Hacket, and Mary Geoghegan, and Katy Dowdall, all sould it, and not one of them escaped the sickness.  And, moreover, didn’t I hear Misther Cooper, the bleedin’ doctor, say, myself, in the market, on Sathurday, that the people couldn’t do a worse thing than cut their hair close, as it lets the sickness in by the head, and makes it tin times as hard upon them, when it comes.”

“Well, well, there’s no arguin’ wid you,” said the pedlar, “all I say is, that you ought to part wid it, acushla—­by all means you ought.”

“Never mind him, Mave darlin’,” said her mother, whose motive in saying so was altogether dictated by affectionate apprehensions for her health.

“No,” replied her daughter, “it is not my intention, mother, to part with what God has given me.  I have no notion of it.”

At this stage of the dialogue, her eldest brother, who had been getting a horse shod at the next forge, entered the house, and threw himself carelessly on a chair.  His appearance occasioned a alight pause in the conversation.

“Well, Denny,” said the father, “what’s the news?”

“Bad news with the Daltons,” replied the boy.

“With the Daltons!” exclaimed Mave, trembling, and getting paler, if possible, than she was; “for God’s mercy, Dennis, what has happened amongst them?”

“I met Mrs. Dalton a while ago,” he replied, “and she tould me that they had no one now to take care of them.  Sarah M’Gowan, the Black Prophet’s daughter, has catched the sickness, and is lyin’ in a shed there beyant, that a poor thravellin’ family was in about a week ago.  Mrs. Dalton says her own family isn’t worse wid the sickness, but betther, she thinks; but she was cryin’, the daicent craythur, and she says they’ll die wid neglect and starvation, for she must be out, and there’s no one to attend to them, and they have nothing but the black wather, God help them!”

While he spoke, Mave’s eyes were fastened upon him, as if the sentence of her own life or death was about to issue from his lip.  Gradually, however, she breathed more freely; a pale red tinged her cheek for a moment, after which, a greater paleness settled upon it again.

The pedlar shook his head.  “Ah,” he exclaimed, “they are hard times, sure enough; may the Lord bring us all safe through them!  Well, I see I’m not likely to make my fortune among you,” he added, smiling, “so I must tramp on, but any way, I must thank you for house-room and your civility.”

“I’d offer something to ait,” said Mrs. Sullivan, with evident pain, “but the truth is—­”

“Not a morsel,” replied the other, “if the house was overflown.’.  God bless you all—­God bless you.”